Before The Dawn
by Silver Square
Summary: Over a thousand years ago, Hogwarts was founded. It was built far from prying Muggle eyes, for it was an age when common people feared magic, and witches and wizards suffered much persecution...
1. Godric Gryffindor

_27th of September, 975 A.D._

_Western England_

The knight brought his sword in a short arc toward his opponent's shoulder. He took a step back and brought his own sword up to block it. The knight thrust his sword forward. His opponent parried, then attacked, stepping into the knight and knocking the sword from his grasp. The triumphant dueller removed his helmet, fully revealing the features of a sixteen year-old boy. His name was Godric

The knight removed his own helmet and bowed his head in acknowledgement.

"That's the fifth time today I've beaten you, Druian. Are you sure you're trying?" The knight shrugged his shoulders.

"You are to be Earl of Gryffindor Manor when the time arises, you should be learning about ancient texts and politics, not duelling with me five times in a row for fun."

Godric frowned at this. "I can already read in Latin as well as hold a fluent conversation in French; I don't see how I could I possibly benefit from learning about politics. Besides," he added, smiling. "It's much more fun this way."

"You have been keeping up with the recent reports from court, correct?" When Godric gave him a look that appeared to be half-way between a sheepish smile and a blank expression, Druian continued. "There have been rumours that Lord Aedorein has broken the peace treaty. From what I heard, he may be attempting to attack Caerleon."

"But that's impossible. The knights of Caerleon are some of the most skilled in all of Britain."

"That is why he is not openly challenging them. He is playing it smart, lying low and biding his time."

"If he's doing so well, how do you know about it?" Godric asked a hint of suspicion in his voice.

"I have friends among the courtiers, which you would know of if you bothered to pay attention. They have heard whispers from the lower class that a war on sorcery will be upon us before long. Giving the way people have been feeling, it would not surprise me if it was a unanimous decision." Godric's eyes lit up.

"Of course! A war against all sorcerers would give Aedorein the perfect opportunity to attack Caerleon without worry of repercussion. He could accuse the ruling noble there of practicing sorcery, have him removed, and the land would dissolve into his own by default."

"Then you can see why this would be a particularly good time to continue our chess game, then."

They both sheathed their swords and took of the padding they had been wearing instead of mail. They then moved to the tent and proceeded with their previous discussion, and their chess game.

"If he can unite the kingdoms under a single goal, he may decide to attack the Scotts as well. Of course, he would have to get permission from the Pope's appointed leader." He said this last part with disdain, not even acknowledging the official title. Druian nodded at Godric's words and moved his bishop.

"Although the disdain in your voice is completely justified, young Edward does deserve his real title: Prince." Godric cracked a smile, as Edward, at 13 years old, had been officially crowned King two months ago to the day, and waited as Druian continued.

"To address your assumed strategy, and not the atrocious one of this chess game, yes, that could be a problem. Especially since the Druids have gone into hiding. It would make the Scotts, mainly the Picts the primary target, as they seem to be mostly lead by what others would consider sorcerers and barbarians, other than the sea-raiders down at the southern coast. There is also the grudge that everyone English seems to hold against them for being able to actually put up a good fight. Check." Godric moved his knight to protect his king, effectively blocking the bishop's path.

"Now, enough talk of politics; your father is due to return any day now. If his impeccable timing and luck hold up, he might even return without a death-wound." They continued to play the game in silence until Godric managed to lose both his knights and Druian had been forced to sacrifice his queen.

"I think that's enough for now," Druian announced, going out of the tent. "Though you really should work on subtlety of strategy, Godric, as the answer to everything is not to attack with the knight. Druian turned and began to make his way toward the Manor. Godric was about to follow when something on the road caught his eye. Looking closer he realized that it was a horse carrying a rider that Godric assumed was either unconscious or extremely drunk. His eyes widened as he recognized the figure. It was his father.


	2. Salazar Slytherin

_11th of August, 975 A.D._

_Wexford Ireland_

The dark-haired youth looked warily at the unfinished sword in front of him. This would be the hardest part. He closed his eyes and let the magic flow out of him as his teacher had shown him, surrounding the blade. He winced at the pain he felt and willed the spell to finish, the magic going inside the sword. The boy stumbled backwards, exhausted from the extended use, and looked at the sword. It was now finished, complete with green jewels on the hilt and a cross-guard specially designed to curve outward slightly. He noted the magic had turned the metal a greyish shade of black. His name was Salazar.

He collapsed on the ground. As he lay there, panting, he vaguely wondered why he made a sword. Why did he not make an axe? Many people used axes. Actually, pretty much everyone in Ireland used an axe. If they did not they used a bow or a knife, or, rarely, a crossbow. But no, he just had to make the one weapon that was impossible to find there. He also wondered why he had made any weapon at all. Normally, he would have to wait two more years before it would even be considered. Then he remembered the words Chief Instructor Maeve had told him most recently. _Times are changing. _Salazar would not have believed those words had it not been for what he had witnessed happening around him.

It had started roughly two years ago. An Englishman had arrived on the western shores, claiming to have been sent by the Church. Normally, people would have ignored him, except for what he was claiming. He said he was, well, around the English he would be called Saint Patrick. However, Patrick had died centuries ago. Yet the man was persistent in his claim that he had been brought back to finish what he had started, which in this case meant driving the snakes from Ireland. Only, snakes had never existed in Ireland. It was only months later that Salazar realized the true meaning behind the man's words. He started out small, never speaking against the sorcerers directly, only hinting at it. Slowly, Salazar began to notice the distrustful looks of his Muggle neighbours. By one and a half years' time, there began to be attacks. It started out quietly enough, an accidental fire here, a fall off a cliff there. But they grew bolder, and Salazar started to realize that it was not just the Muggles that were attacking. It was also the Muggle-borns. And that may have been the most terrifying realization of all. It certainly made things a lot more dangerous.

Salazar took his sword home with him. He briefly considered showing it to his instructor first, but decided against it. He would have time enough for that tomorrow. He could not have been more wrong.

It was the middle of the night when he awoke to screaming. Jumping to his feet, Salazar quickly put on a pair of trousers before rushing to see what was happening. He got the door opened just in time to see his father cut down in front of him by an axe, his mother's body lay unmoving a few feet away. Salazar yelled in horror and anger, his eyes flashing golden as all the Muggles were thrown back several feet. Grabbing his sword, the young sorcerer knelt at his father's side.

"Salazar," he gasped. "The book…you must protect-" His father collapsed, killed fully by a crossbow bolt. Another one, lit with fire, shot into the ground before him, catching onto the dried peat stacked near the house. In a flash, the sixteen year-old was on his feet, launching himself at the Muggles with his sword. He sliced through the first three easily, before using magic to send a fourth flying into a peat pile. There were six remaining, and judging by their swords, they were English. Salazar engaged the first one in combat.

"_Ahatian_," he whispered, and watched as his opponent's sword grew hot, his attacker dropping it from the pain of the heat. Salazar then quickly ducked as a thrown axe embedded itself instead into the arm of his opponent before finishing the job, increasing the pain from the wound to send the man into unconsciousness. He turned to face the next Muggle, deftly deflecting the heavy blow by angling his sword so that it would glance off. He effectively knocked his opponent out by slamming the hilt of his sword into their unprotected temple. Realising his mistake, Salazar quickly attempted to dodge the thrown knife, but was too slow and let out a yell as the knife embedded itself in his right arm. He quickly switched hands, using the sword to block a second knife before slicing at the man's legs. Stepping on his shoulder to leap over him, Salazar brought his sword down on the next man's sword-arm and kicked him in the side before knocking him against the house. The final two standing rushed him from both sides; Salazar deflected both thrusts, sending the swords into each other's owner. He then ran back inside the now-burning house, grabbing the bag containing the book his father had spoken of, before tearing the knife from his arm and taking off in a sprint to find his instructor.


	3. Helga Hufflepuff

_13th of June, 975 A.D._

_Near the south cost of Wales_

It was another moderately peaceful day in Wales. A girl of about twelve knelt down, examining the plant before her. It looked like nothing she had ever seen before, with red-golden flowers of unusual shapes. However, that was not the only thing that was odd. There were what appeared to be moths flying over it. She was shocked when she looked closer. They were faeries, and the girl watched in amazement as they bowed to her, and seemed to offer her the plant. Her name was Helga.

Hesitantly, Helga reached a hand out toward the plant. Three of the flowers seemed to move of their own accord, detaching themselves from the plant and floating into her outstretched palm. For some reason, Helga knew that she must not lose the flowers, and so she put them into the bag on her waist. When she turned back, the faeries, and strangely the plant, had disappeared. As she made her way back to the village, Helga found herself remembering less and less of the encounter, until it felt more like a dream than anything else. She was completely satisfied with life being the way it was, and maybe that is part of why she forgot about her encounter with the magical creatures. Or perhaps it was because of the faeries themselves, not wanting the girl to draw attention to the rare plant they had entrusted her. Whatever the reason was, the first thing she felt upon entering the village she had known all her life, was fear.

A man that she recognized as the son of her father's friend, 17-year-old Matthew Ford, turned and saw her. His eyes shown with some sort of inner conflict of which a naïve girl of 12 could not possibly expect to comprehend before he motioned her to stay where she was. It was then that she heard the voice of the one man who had always been wary of her family; the village wiseman, Rowan.

"The following people, having been found guilty of practicing sorcery, are hereby sentenced to death." Helga's breath caught in her throat, though she had no idea what caused her apprehension. She glanced at Matthew, who with a look managed to communicate that she mustn't make a sound.

"Eliard and Rhonwen, also known as Hufflepuff."

Air rushed out of Helga's lungs as her parents' names were read, her head spinning as though the world itself were being shaken.

"According to our practices, they have been stripped of anything but the last layer of their clothing, with anything in their pockets, be it a nail or a length of wood, to be destroyed by any means possible. They shall then be doused with oil and the sorcery purged from them by fire. Do any speak against this?" As soon as those words were heard, there was a scream. Matthew knew without looking that it was Helga as she ran past him.

"Helga, no!" he cried, running to pull her back, but he was too late. "You can't do this, you just can't!" Helga screamed, tears running down her face. Matthew dragged her away just before the pier was lit. Quickly ducking behind a tree, he tied Helga's hands loosely to a tree.

"We can't save them Helga, do you understand?" He saw her nod her head, words refusing to come out.

"Right, now I am going to do something extremely stupid, so if anyone comes after you, run. Don't let them even see you." He took out a knife, pressing it into her hand. "Use this if they get in your way."

With those words, he took off running towards the pier. The screaming was growing loud now, and though he knew it was impossible to save them, Matthew did want to ease their suffering, and so he took up a good-sized log and ran straight at the fire, and with a smack, knocked Rhonwen unconscious before quickly escaping the flame himself. He looked at Elian, trying to convey the mercy he felt he was giving. Elian's eyes only held pain, but Matthew managed to take that as an exchange of gratitude. His ears registered the sound of a bow being drawn, and he ducked just in time to avoid an arrow to the back, which then plunged into the chest of Helga's father, truly ending his suffering.

"Are you trying to kill me?" Matthew asked to the villager holding the bow.

"You are one of them," he accused unapologetically.

"Why would you say that?" Matthew looked at him, confused.

"Your leg; you did not scream out, even though fire consumed it." It was then that Matthew looked down at his leg; the flesh below his knee was completely burnt, it was a wonder he could even stand. Strangely he felt no pain from it, would not have even noticed it had the hunter not pointed it out.

"I really wish you hadn't noticed that, sir." With a flash, Matthew threw his hatchet, breaking the bow. He then took off running, stopping directly before he reached Helga's hiding place. "Helga," he said loudly, his voice strained with fear. "You should run," and he launched himself at the armed villagers, smiling in spite of the situation.

Helga slipped her hands from the rope and took off running for the forest. She was almost there when she tripped, falling awkwardly on the ground. She scrambled to get back up, her ankle hurting, when she was grabbed by Rowan.

Two of them went down, unconscious due to the flat of a hatchet and the handle respectively had been slammed into their heads. The third was flipped over Matthew's shoulder by the man's own momentum. The fourth was his downfall, the villager's knife slicing his stomach. Matthew struggled to breathe, managing to find the strength to break the man's nose with a punch to his face before his limbs failed him and he collapsed to the ground. He managed to force out the words "So…cold" before the darkness claimed him. If any of the villagers felt ashamed or regretted what they had just done, nobody said anything. They just continued forward to see Rowan walking toward them, a struggling Helga in his grasp.

After discussing at some length the extent of their morals, it was decided that Helga would be given to the sea raiders that had arrived at the coast three days before for supplies. The best rider of them, a lad named Aled, was tasked with delivering her. Just to be sure she could not escape, they knocked her unconscious.


End file.
